When I closed my studio last year, one of the first things I did was take the curtains off the mirrors, remove all the electronics & tripods & webcams, and pull the ‘social distancing’ tape up off the floor. I wanted to remove all evidence from the space.

The wood floors were trashed from two years of tape. Criss-cross stripes of raw wood stared at me any time I was in the studio. I’d see the damage, and my body would process the challenges all over again. I didn’t like to be reminded, so I avoided being there.

It took me a long time to address it.

Finally, with a little bit of stain, l’ve touched up the damaged spots. (Resurfacing will have to wait for now.)
I can still see the blemishes, but it’s much better.

We can remove the evidence, or even cover it up, but we’re left with the scars.
They might be less visible, but they’re still felt. Deeply.

With time, we heal.
And the wounds are less painful.
And less triggering.
We move forward, maybe in a new direction, or with a new perspective, or a change of heart…

It feels good to be in the studio again.
And it feels good to feel good.

She feels fresh, and tended to, and cared for, and loved. She’s survived a storm, and I’m so grateful she’s still standing.

Scars are evidence of life lived.
If we emerge unscathed, perhaps we’ve tip-toed cautiously. But… where‘s the fun in that?

One of my favourite quotes:

“A smooth sea never made a skilled sailor.”

Franklin D Roosevelt

We all have scars. And we’re all survivors, in some way.

Sail on, friends… wounds and all.
Collect the evidence of a life well-lived, and pause once in a while, to tell the tales.